


Q is for Quidditch

by KateKintail



Series: The ABC Series 2012 [17]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-03
Updated: 2013-02-03
Packaged: 2017-11-28 02:07:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/669034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KateKintail/pseuds/KateKintail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Flint is tortured a bit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Q is for Quidditch

**Author's Note:**

> Part of a collection of short H/C ficlets. I asked on one of my LiveJournals for a one word for each letter of the alphabet, as well as a fandom and/or pairing.

Without so much as a glance in Oliver’s direction, Marcus stormed past the player’s bench and into the guest team’s locker room at the Falmouth Falcons’ pitch. Oliver mumbled “Be right back,” to the nearest assistant coach and grabbed his crutches. With one under each arm and holding his left leg up, he made his way into the locker room.   
  
He found Marcus leaning up against his locker, chest heaving with quick, deep breaths. Oliver maneuvered around the benches then stood beside him. “Getting pulled and benched is not the end of the world, Flint.”  
  
Marcus glared at him. “Not to you, maybe. You’re used to sitting out.”  
  
It was a low blow. Oliver had spent the past two years on the team sitting on the bench as the backup keeper. Occasionally he got to start and even more occasionally he got to play out a whole game. He’d been in the middle of one when a bludger had smacked right into his leg at such high speeds it shattered almost all his bones. The healers had grown his bones back in about a day, but getting his leg back to proper Quidditch-playing condition was going to take a little longer. He wasn’t stupid enough to want to push it. He leaned against the lockers. “Fuck you, Flint.”   
  
“Is that an offer?” His voice was wobbly, uncertain, like his heart really wasn’t in it.   
  
“No, you asshole. It’s a threat to tell me what’s wrong with you or we’ll never shag again.”  
  
He dove into his locker, rooting around, before finally producing a letter. He crumpled it in his fist and thrust the little ball of it at Oliver.   
  
Oliver unfolded it, slid the letter from the envelope, and skimmed it. “Oh… Flint…”  
  
“Had to be this game. I’ve been playing for years and she picks this game to come to? The game where I get tossed out for colliding with a player in open air? I mean, it might be worth it if I’d been pulled for trying some illegal move or for scoring so many goals it’s not fair to my teammates. But just because I had my eye on the quaffle and totally didn’t see that Robinski guy coming, I get thrown out of the entire game right in front of my mother who really doesn’t need another reason to disapprove.” He banged his fists back against the lockers.   
  
His eyes looked wet. Marcus Flint, about to cry. Oliver had never seen something so entirely unexpected.   
  
“Let’s get out of here,” Oliver said, gripping Marcus’ arm. “Unless…”  
  
Marcus nodded. “You don’t know my mum. She won’t want to see me after this.” His voice sounded stronger. He nodded resolutely. “Let’s go get a drink, Wood.”  
  
Oliver turned, the end of the crutch catching on the nearest bench. He pitched backward, right into Marcus. Instead of just keeping him upright, Marcus actually scooped Oliver up. Crutches and all, Marcus held Oliver. They grinned at each other. Marcus carried him out, away from the Quidditch pitch, as applause rose up from the stands, indicating the Falcons had either scored again or caught the snitch. They both felt the sadness of the loss, but knew it would fade after a couple drinks. There was always another game, after all, and endless chances to get it right.


End file.
